• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 12
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At the low river tide
he sweeps across the gun-metal foreshore
beloved instrument in hand.
And with each whine of discovery
his eyes betray a glimmer of joy,
extinguished only if his scratchings
in the stones and sand reveal
an unwished for treasure.
But if unearthing the reward he seeks
his body rocks with pleasure as he holds
the rusted prize aloft
in pale-fisted triumph.

In the darkest hours of the night
he stalks the bridges with his harvest,
in pursuit of their untarnished counterparts.
Face inked with concentration
he prods each aperture in turn
alert for that validating click of success
with which a sacred bond is broken.
And having reversed its former final act
the twister of fates is condemned to
the uncaring waters once more.